transparent people

a letter under your pillow

whenever you had something you needed to say to me, you would write me a letter and leave it under my pillow, but i never failed to notice how you had always failed to sign, "with love".

whenever you call, i can tell that you wish you were talking to my answering machine instead. but i had made a habit to say "i love you, dad." and hang up before you got the answer to respond, because i knew the only sound coming from the end would be endless static and regretful breathing. you never really call anymore anyways.

you used to remind me weekly to do good in school and get what i needed to get done, and you always reminded me when i was eating unhealthy.

when i admitted that i had smoked a cigarette, you had threatened to disown me and make me live with my grandmother again. as if that were a threat.

when i showed you my wrists, you pretended not to see, and even faked not knowing when the police and hospitals asked you about it.

i know that you love me, but in a practical way, i guess.

i'm emotionally distant and probably a bit bipolar, because you never stayed with a woman long enough for her to teach me how to use a tampon, and there was no way i could ever ask you such a thing.

i cannot reach out for anyone because my arms do not know what it feels like to be held, and i feel like a stranger trapped in my own body, without any clue what to do, when someone shows affection to me.

so, my arms are stuck in a constant position of pushing, of playing defense.

i even blame you for my lack of athletic abilities, because it was too much of a hassle to come to my games, and i was too worried about how much trouble i would be in if one of those games ran late, and i was home a little later than i had told you.

i'll admit, i started writing this letter a long time ago.

I wrote "dear" the day you got remarried.

i wrote "dad" the day we got into our first fight.

i wrote "i hate you." when you read my diary and laughed about everything that i had written, making me feel smaller than i had already felt.

i wrote "get out of my life" when you called me a liar to the police.

but today, i am trying to write "come back."

please. a hundred times over,  just in case you can't read what i said, don't pretend you can't hear me. if one thing that i will ever say will ever matter, it will be this.

stop calling yourself a bad father.

i'm done with throwing knives and weapons at telephone lines,

i just want to hug you.

i want to be able to remember what you smell like, and sound like. i want to be able to have memories with you that aren't all bad, so that when your grandchildren ask what kind of person you were, i won't have to lie about everything.

i'll help take care of you, dad.

And i'll tell you things like when i think of what a man is, i think of your bravery.

if the first step to getting there is telling you i love you,

i will carve it into braille on your pillow so that it is the first thing that you feel in the morning.

i will pull my umbilical cord out of my stomach and tie it to your wrist so that when you're lost, you've got something to pull on.

Dad, I promise to start walking as soon as i put this pen down, as long as you realize that a daughter is more than a noun. My arms are open and waiting.

i'll walk more than half way, if you promise to meet me there someday.